op (maldito) wrote in repose, @ 2017-07-22 01:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, dahlia haight, newt penhaligon, patrick gunster |
Escape: Dahlia H, Patrick G, & Newt P
Who: Dahlia Haight, Patrick Gunster, & Newt Penhaligon
What: a werewolf in the hospital
Where: the hospital
When: after this & this.
Warnings/Rating: likely mentions of gore/attack, also Dahlia's language
The beers he'd purchased were likely rolling along the floor in Newt's case, unattended and rollicking. Some'd perhaps been chased away by Manuel (the marmite; a creature, not the foodstuffs), the Niffler, or anyone else whose curiosity led them into the shack centred in the case's labyrinth. Either way, it didn't particularly matter, as long as no one opened them. (If anyone was going to, it'd be Dougal. Newt hoped the demiguise was asleep as he ought be.) He shook his head, trying to clear it of these thoughts, as he prepared to head to the hospital. He'd spent a few moments studying the photo Patrick'd been kind enough to send along, and the man thought it was in his head well and good. There was a space next to the bed, away from the door, that'd do fine as a landing area. The tricker part would be Apparating Dahlia into the case if she were conscious. She may well resist, and who could blame her? Especially after the night she'd no doubt had. Although the man understood Cisco's hesitation and alarm at the idea of a lycanthrope's bite, Newt wasn't entirely sure why the man was cross about being told, but still wished to see Dahlia. It was, to Newt's mind, was very mixed message. Then, of course, there was Jack, wandering about to find a dog (an action Newt couldn't hold against his brother; he'd do the same), but Jack didn't have magic or knowledge to escape anything that chose to attack him. Patrick was chafed about this, about Jack's willful ignorance in the face of danger. And, after having planned for nothing more than an evening having a beer with his mate, Newt was somewhat discombobulated. But, he'd always been good in a crisis. Level-headed, cool, and without any proclivity toward anger, he took things in stride. This business with Dahlia was simply another night. For him, not for the poor woman herself. No, Newt felt terribly for her there. (He'd met men and women who'd been bitten in the UK, who'd begged and pleaded to be killed, rather than turn. It was woefully tragic.) Right. He felt his pocket for the tincture he'd made. It was there. Once more, the redhead emptied his mind of the clutter and cotton of these thoughts. He took a deep breath. And with a pop that sounded in his now-empty room in the B&B, he was gone. A fraction of a second later, he was in the antiseptic little room in the hospital and the breath of air stolen from the B&B exhaled here, stale in the face of disinfectant sting. Newt looked entirely out of place in his blue coat, dark trousers, and poorly cut red curls. But, that didn't seem to bother him. Immediately, he held his hands up, in case the woman was conscious, and he said in his soft, disarming voice, "I'm Newt, here at Patrick's bequest to help." He smiled, then let his eyes wander to the bed to look at its occupant. |